


Toxic

by ilovejared



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1k-2k, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovejared/pseuds/ilovejared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set Season 9. Dean's not doing well after Sam doesn't stop him from leaving.  My entry for the wincestfanficnetwork second competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toxic

_________________________________________________________

Well, I can’t forget this evening

or your face as you were leaving

But I guess that ‘s just the way the story goes

You always smile but in your eyes your sorrow shows

I can’t live, if living is without you

"I Can’t Live" by various artists

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don’t go. I’ll eat you up.

I love you so.

"Where the Wild Things Are" by Maurice Sendak

_________________________________________________________

Dean was dreaming. These days, when he dreamed, it wasn’t the usual parade of horrors from his past. His brain had enough fodder for two lifetimes of nightmares but it wasn’t monsters that populated his dreams.

It was Sam.

Sam came to him in dreams as a young boy, laughing with joy as Dean ran with him through a field on a bright Summer’s day in Iowa. Sammy had chased butterflies through the tall grass and they had lain on their backs and watched as the clouds skittered across the azure sky. Dean had told his little brother stories about the dragons and castles they saw in the clouds and Sam had napped because chasing butterflies was hard work when you were only four years old. Dean had carried him back in his arms to the motel and Sam had hung on tight, his arms around Dean’s neck and whispered, “I wuv you, De.”

His little brother visited Dean every time he slept. Sam was eight and they had found a creek behind the shack they were squatting in and every day they splashed and swam and sunned themselves on the bank, talking about inconsequential things. Sam was twelve and they were snowed in and Dean thought it was time that Sam learned poker. They had sat in front of the fire, while the wind howled around the eaves of the little brick house they were renting, and ate popcorn and played cards and Dean had given Sam a beer. Sam had giggled happily as he relieved Dean of his coins and Dean had sworn that Sam was a card shark and they had slept, entwined as always, right there in front of the fire. And Dean had known then, that as long as Sam was with him, as long as Sam smiled at him with adoration in his eyes, he would be good.

Life would be bearable as long as he had Sam by his side.

Dean dreamed of their first kiss. On a cloudless August night, under a three-quarter moon, they had sat side by side on the hood of the impala. Sam was fifteen and the baby fat had disappeared and he had grown until he was almost as tall as Dean. He had turned to Dean and the light had caught his face just right and Dean could see the man Sam would become and it left him breathless. He didn’t want to hide his feelings for his little brother anymore. What was the point? He could see the same emotions in Sam’s eyes, the same longing.

At the first touch of Sam’s lips on his, Sam’s tongue sliding against his, he knew every truth he would ever need to know.

Sam was his and he was Sam’s.

Dean would dream of Sam’s body against his, the feel of skin on skin, slick with sweat and flushed with heat. The taste of Sam’s skin on his lips. The way Sam moved underneath him, arching and moaning, his hands cupping Dean’s ass, urging him deeper, harder.

He dreamed of Sam coming to his room, not even two weeks ago. He had looked at his big brother and Dean had seen the yearning, the hunger, and there was nothing of Zeke in Sam’s eyes. It was all Sam and Dean didn’t care anyway. Let the angel watch if that was his idea of fun.They had come together, mouths seeking one another‘s, hands roaming and pulling at buttons and zippers and it was as if they couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get close enough.

Finally, they had fallen on the bed and Dean had wanted to sob in relief at the feel of his brother around him, in him. Sam had fucked him slow and gentle at first, then had pulled him up until Dean’s back was against Sam’s chest and Sam had held him tight and they had moved together, like they had never been apart and it had been so good, so goddamned good….

Dean jerked awake. He groaned as he turned and looked at the glowing numbers of the clock on the bedside table. It was just after 3 a.m which meant he had been asleep not quite two hours. Fuck.

He made his way to the bathroom, relieved himself, then splashed his face with water. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, which upon further examination, was not the best course of action.

The man that stared back at him was pale with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Dean ran his hand over the stubble that had been left to grow for the better part of a week and grimaced.

 

He wondered if Sam would even care that Dean slept fitfully for only two or three hours at a time. That his diet, since he had left Sam standing under a street lamp with Cas, had consisted of mostly liquids in the form of Jack Daniels and beer.

Would Sam care that all Dean could think of when he was awake was all of the things he had done wrong?

Dean’s nightmares began when he woke up.

His brain worked over time to make sure he remembered every time he had caused Sam pain. The look on Sam’s face when Dad had told Sam to get out and not come back if he wanted to go to Stanford. Sam had turned to Dean, tears in his eyes, and Dean had said nothing. Nothing.

He had wanted to beg Sam to stay because they were supposed to be together. Always.

Sam was his and he was Sam’s.

Dean had driven to Palo Alto to surprise Sam and had seen him crossing the street with a pretty blond by his side. Dean could see from where he was sitting that the girl was in love with his brother. He knew that look. He had seen it reflected in Sam’s eyes too many times. Sam had smiled down at her, his hair blowing in the breeze and he had looked happy.

Dean had driven two blocks, had pulled the impala to the side of the street, leaned out the passenger door and vomited up the breakfast he had eaten that morning. He didn’t call or visit Sam again. Sam had left voice mails, had begged Dean to call just to let him know he was okay. Sam had asked over and over if he had done something wrong. Sam had finally quit calling and Dean had kept every message and listened to them while he lay sleepless in another shabby motel room.

Sam was his and he was Sam’s.

He had held Sam while his life’s blood had run out into the muddy street in Cold Oak, South Dakota. Sam had died in his arms and Dean had cradled his lifeless body in the back of the impala while Bobby drove them to a house he knew of that was used by hunters occasionally. Dean had carried his little brother into a dusty room and placed him on a bare mattress and held his hand until it was as cold as Dean’s heart.

Sam was his and he was Sam’s.

He couldn’t lose Sam. It was incomprehensible. Dean was supposed to protect Sammy, whatever the cost to himself. He knew that. He had always known.

So he had gone to the crossroads and sold his soul and Dean had to watch the next year as Sam tried to deal with the inevitability of losing his brother. He had told Sam the truth and there was nothing else to say.

I couldn’t live with you dead. Couldn’t do it.

Sam was his and he was Sam’s and Dean couldn’t live in a world without his brother. He couldn’t.

And when the shit had hit the fan and Sam had found out that Dean had let an angel possess him rather than let him die, that Ezekiel or Gadreel or whatever the fuck his name was had killed Kevin and other innocents with Sam’s body, something had broken in Sam.

And Sam had let Dean walk away, hadn’t tried to stop him.

Dean just wanted to shut down. He didn’t want to think about it and he sure as hell didn’t want to relive all of the moments that he and Sam had been torn apart by lies or life or whatever.

 

Because Sam was his and he was Sam’s and that was the way it was supposed to be. It was the only way it could be.

Sam was his. His.

Surely Sam would understand that Dean had saved him because that was what Dean did. Protected Sam. Any way he could.

He’d understand. Sammy always did in the end. Dean didn’t make declarations of love because actions spoke louder than words.

Dean loved his brother and there were no words that encompass what that meant. But he could show Sam by keeping him safe, keeping him alive. So they could be together. Always.

Because Sam was his and he was Sam’s and he would never let Sam go. Never. Not while he had a breath left in his own body.

He wanted to block out the disappointment, the hurt, he had seen in Sam’s eyes so he reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a long drink.

Sam was his and he was Sam’s. Dean whispered into the dark room and the sound of his own voice, cracked and slurred, brought tears to his eyes.

“Sam…Sammy.”

He swallowed two Vicodin he had found in a bottle in the bottom of his duffel, washing them down with another long pull on the bottle of Jack.

He lay back and closed his eyes and hoped to sleep.

And to dream.


End file.
